


Sometimes I Think About Terrible Things

by orphan_account



Series: Give it up, give it up now [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood Play, First Person, Gore, M/M, Murder, Podfic Welcome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serial Killer, Stockholm Syndrome, Violence, britishisms, dub con, peter is a murderer, the word arse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It doesn’t make sense that he’s the same boring human as everyone else. Only monsters of the night should be able to cause so much pain."</p>
<p>Serial killer Peter universe, read from the perspective of Stiles, his victim and permanent house guest.<br/>Contains sex, but probably shouldn't be considered porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes I Think About Terrible Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dark story. Read tags and/or scroll to end to see spoilers/warnings.  
> Also, not beta-ed at this time.

 

I’m sure I’m supposed to be screaming in this room.

 

Hammering on the door, trying to catch the attention of whoever is out there.

 

It’s just that I know it doesn’t matter.

 

They never hear me. Peter knows just what level to put the music at so that my attempts are drowned out, and this door is just too thick anyway.

 

Instead I sit on the bed and stare at the door.

 

Whomever is out there has probably ingested the drugs by now.

 

...Unless Peter doesn’t want to drug this one.

 

It’s been awhile since he’s had one that was fully conscious. He doesn’t normally let me out at all when he’s keeping them sober.

 

I’m not sure if he’s worried that the two of us could over power him (doubtful) or he’s worried that I’ll get hurt in the struggle.

 

It’s strange to think of it that way. But I’d be an idiot not to face the truth of the matter. Peter doesn’t want me hurt.

 

The music is turned off.

 

I guess he did drug them then.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later and Peter has come for me. The man is mostly silent during these moments. A stark differences from his regularly loquacious self.

 

It's somewhat disconcerting to have nothing but his stern face to read, but I'm at least used to that bit.

 

...There's other bits I'll probably never get used to.

 

I hope anyway.

 

I'm manhandled into the bathroom, which isn't the most common setting for the scene. But we've been in here enough times I know that I'm going to positioned on the sink cabinet. Peter fusses with me. Checking the rope that has tied my wrists together. Undoing a few buttons on my shirt. Removing my trousers.

 

When he's done he goes to check on the other occupant in the room.

 

It's then that I finally let myself look over too.

 

The boy is probably my age. Unsurprising.

 

He has longish jet black hair. A sign that Peter might be regretting his choice to have shorn my own hair short.

 

He's been stripped down to his boxers. And is laying in the bath tub.

 

He's also bleeding copiously from a wrist cut.

 

Peter's clothes were clean, but now that he kneels in the bath with the boy he's already getting coated in the slippy red liquid.

 

Peter's wearing a white shirt. And within moments it's ruined.

 

I've seen this part so many times, but it doesn't stop being horrifying.

 

I hope it doesn't stop being horrifying.

 

That's why I'm watching. I'm watching to make sure I still hate it. That it still disgusts me.

 

At least I know it scares me,

 

The boy is just conscious enough to be moaning in pain over the wound. He's holding it. Probably with the aim to stem the bleeding, but mostly it's just spraying it over his chest. He doesn't seem completely aware Peter is kneeling over him.

 

Until Peter puts a knife in his stomach.

 

The boy is screaming now. Not as loud as you'd expect. But the drugged ones never really manage to make that much noise. Which is why Peter likes them the best.

 

I don't know enough about knife wounds to know if this one is fatal. I just know that the boy is now bleeding twice as fast.

 

"Pleeeashee.. Noo."

 

He's already begging. Which I know that Peter hates.

 

I wince - perhaps sympathetically - when Peter puts the knife through the boy's cheek next.

 

It's not the most conducive for blood letting, but it's effective in curbing the boy's ability to talk.

 

I think that's why Peter does it like this anyway.

 

The blood.

 

At least in the bath, it seems like he's collecting it.

 

The next few knife movements are almost lazy in their patterns. Cutting into the boy's sternum. A particularly deep one in the neck, that hastens the blood flow.

 

I think it's the blood.

 

Even the ones that he pummels to death tend to be bloody. The last sober one met his end with his face being smashed repeatedly into the kitchen table. Peter had had me tied securely at one of the kitchen chairs, a roast dinner in front of me. While our guest struggled for his life. The boy's blood had got in the gravy. I knew it was intentional when Peter fed it to me later.

 

It's everywhere now, this boy's blood, Peter's covered in it.

 

I'm almost grateful that this time it's so tame. The boy seems too gone to really register his life seeping out of him. Emitting sad little whines every time Peter stabs him in a new place, but it's as if his life is just draining out of him along with his contents.

 

It's difficult. Because I want it to end. But I also don't want it to stop. Because when Peter's finally finished with him, I know it'll be my turn. 

 

"Do you think I made a good choice?"

 

It's started then.

 

"I don't know."

 

Peter looks at me now. He's smiling, his eyes a positively gleaming with excitement and pleasure. It's one of the most sickening things I've seen all night. But he's disappointed I'm not playing the game.

 

"Would you have picked him?"

 

'No, you fucking psychopath, I'd have let him go home.'

 

"I wouldn't know."

 

Peter sighs. A little bit of his excitement seeping out of him.

 

With a deft move, he pushes the knife through the boys sternum. It's quick, sudden, and the boy is making small choking noises. Blood has burst out the cut and sprayed across Peter's face.

 

I watch him as he leaves the bath and walks over to me.

 

"Hello Stiles."

 

"Hello Peter."

 

"Are you scared?"

 

I nod. My eyes flick a few times to the boy moaning in the bath.

 

"I'm always telling you not to be scared."

 

"I know.. I'm sorry."

 

Peter's got a smile on his face. He knows I'm placating him. It's not really my fault, anyone would be trying to tame a mass murdering fuckhead standing in front of them.

 

I'm never certain if he likes it better when I'm playing timid or fighting him.

 

And I never know if I should be doing what he wants.

 

He grabs my shirt suddenly.

 

It's the kind of sudden move I normally see attached to a knife and a victim's quick end.

 

I open my mouth to scream, but he's already pushing his tongue into me.

 

I can taste the thick irony flavour of blood. It's suffocating. I'm choking on it. Every deft stroke of his tongue against the insides of my lips coats me in more of it.

 

"You look so good." He sighs when finally letting my shirt go.

 

I collapse back onto the cabinet. Breath heaving. I want to spit the flavour out again. Try and remove the taste of flesh. But I know that he wouldn't appreciate it.

 

Peter is already pulling open my shirt. His eyes honing in on the full expanse of my white skin. There's barely a blemish there.

 

With precision he picks up my arms and removes a knife from his jeans.

 

I'm holding my breath.

 

Did I do something wrong?

 

Has he gotten bored of me?

 

...Am I not exciting enough anymore?

 

My heart is racing as he slips the knife beneath the bindings, and then cuts them open.

 

He doesn't let go of my wrist.

 

He's staring at where he cut the boy.

 

I'm certain that it's finally my turn.

 

That having an audience isn't enough anymore. That it's me that he wants to see bleeding in the bath tub.

 

I don't pity the boy anymore.

 

I'm angry at him.

 

Why the fuck couldn't he be more exciting?

 

Why was his death so pathetic that apparently Peter is also going to need mine to feel satisfied.

 

Mulling over his actions, Peter leans down to dip his knife back into the well of blood that has collected in the bath tub.

 

It comes back a glossy red.

 

My eyes are tracking the knife with an avid fear. It's as if everything is moving in slow motion.

 

I watch Peter as he brings the knife to my wrist.

 

In those last seconds before the metal touches me I have to force myself to bite my lips to keep a weak 'please' from being uttered.

 

Peter hates when they beg.

 

It doesn't stop me from going rigid in fear. My muscles trembling as they try to flinch away from his grip.

 

When it touches me though, he's using the blunt side.

 

He paints me.

 

He repeats the marks he made on the boy with his blood.

 

Displaying my limbs, manipulating my body until I'm splayed open beneath him.

 

The quiet precision from his movements are getting sloppy now.

 

Whereas before he was meticulous in recreating what he had just made. Now he is haphazard. As if revealing that his true aim is just to see me covered.

 

I hiss with displeasure when he grabs at my throat, using it to jolt me forward.

 

"You're so fucking pretty." He murmurs at me.

 

He pushes a bloody thumb into my mouth.

 

I'm sickened by the flavour, but I'm not confident enough to do anything but suck it down into my mouth.

 

I don't moan for him, as he'd know it was a lie.

 

But I suck on it, my tongue flicking against his fingertip, to diligently remove the blood. The sooner I do so, the sooner he'll remove it.

 

He growls in pleasure. Scooping more blood from the bath and smearing it across my lips.

 

I want to choke, to vomit from the oily texture that floods my jaw, but within seconds he's chasing it into my mouth with his tongue.

 

He’s hard against my belly.

 

I have no idea where to put my arms, I don’t want him to pin them down, but I can’t bare the idea of _not_ fighting him. I leave them face up either side of me. Mimicking the now near-silent boy in the bath.

 

My eyes flick to him a few times. Even the laboured breathing has reduced. Maybe he’s dead. And it’s just the first moments of death that has him moving incrementally.

 

But I think I can see him still trying to suck air in. Still spilling his blood copiously into the bath.

 

“You look so much better than him.”

 

My eyes fly back to Peter. It’s almost a shock that I forgot he was there. Devouring me.

 

He however looks exponentially pleased with my choice of focus.

 

“You look better than all of them… Can you imagine yourself in his place?”

 

I nod my head.

 

Peter undoes his trousers and retrieves his prick. He’s so close its tip is almost touching my ribs.

 

He’s jerking himself slowly, covering himself in the residue blood.

 

“You don’t have to be jealous of them.”

 

‘I’m not’ - I want to say. I don’t though, through fear mostly.

 

He puts my hand on his prick. The blood on my mouth is drying a horrid tacky feeling, and I have to compulsively swipe my tongue over them. Each time reminding myself of the contents of the mixture.

 

He likes it though. He retrieves more of the blood from the bath and lubricates my fingers, so they slip quicker over his head.

 

I feel as if I should be numbed by how much blood I’m covered in. But truly, he’s not normally so interactive with it. It’s scaring me a little. He’s not normally so fascinated with seeing me painted red.

 

“That’s it baby, look how pretty you are.”

 

He runs the knife down the side seam of my boxers. I’m so terrified he’s going to nick my skin and cause me to bleed.

 

I’m scared because once he starts cutting me, I don’t know if he’ll stop.

 

The moment is so thick, I feel like I’m drowning. All his movements feel sharp, defined, like a knife cutting through the sodden slowness that is my ability to grasp what is happening.

 

Within seconds of me being bare to him, he’s caressing my arse. I can feel the tacky texture of blood clinging to the back of my thighs. He kisses me again, a move that swallows my distress as I feel his slick fingers push inside me.

 

My insides go cold with the realisation. He’s fucking his fingers into me, eased by the slick of the boy’s blood.

 

I’m pretty certain I’m going to be sick.

 

Peter must know this, as he let’s off from kissing me. Moving far enough away that he can just watch his fingers disappear inside me.

 

It hurts, because we don’t actually do this a lot.

 

Less than I thought we would anyway.

 

And blood doesn’t make very good lubricant. Too sticky. Dries too quick.

 

Oh fuck I’m going to be sick.

 

“P-peter.” I tremble. Frigid with fear, because I know he’d be angry if I ruin the moment.

 

“Shh, shh.” He croons, mock soothing. His hand easing out of me, and instead massaging my stomach.

 

“You’re ok baby. Look how good you are for me.”

 

I don’t feel good. I feel disgusting. I feel like I’m going to drown in all this blood. I feel like -

 

He wraps his hand around my throat and squeezes.

 

“Calm down.” His words are an order, but when I look up at him there’s a softness in his eyes that tells me that he’s giving me a second.

 

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

 

‘This too will pass.’ I tell myself. ‘It’s just blood, this isn’t anything worse than what he’s already put you through’.

 

Thankfully, after a few deep breaths I can feel the nausea abate. I’m panting slightly, and there’s too much saliva in my mouth, but I’m certain I’ll be able to keep it together.

 

Opening my eyes and finding Peter just patiently staring at me gives me cold shiver.

 

His expression is patient, soft almost, and his hand is now just gently massaging my neck.

 

“Are you back with me?”

 

I nod.

 

I suddenly have the urge to fight him. Something that I lost weeks ago, when my self preservation kicked in. But now, I feel too complicit. I feel like a participant in his madness, a supporting player. I feel like he did this for _us_ , for _our_ scene.

 

“I don’t like the blood.”

 

He nods at me. “I guessed. But you’ll get used to it.”

 

It’s not the first thing he’s told me to get used to, and he’s probably right, I will get used to it. Or die. I’ll get used to it, or he’ll kill me.

 

The urge to fight is still there under my chest, my eyes momentarily flick to the door, but I can already feel my mistake.

 

As quick as a flash he grabs me around the middle and flips me onto my stomach. My face slams down into the puddle of blood that had collected beneath me, and I instantly struggle. One part trying to keep my face out of the liquid, another still ridiculously delusioned that I might be able to squirm away.

 

I hear Peter’s deep laugh behind me. “So gutsy Stiles, even when you’re scared.”

 

“I- want- I need up. Peter, I need-” he just pushes my face down into the blood, grinding his erection against the cleft of my arse as I squirm.

 

I’m spluttering, and mewling at the cruelness of the action. Peter tightens his grip around the back of my neck.

 

“I’m going to be kind to you Stiles-” ‘yeah right, you fucking gore obsessed psychopath’ my brain spits in fear “-and remind you that staying _still_ right now, might save you from making mistakes you might regret.”

 

Peter sounds excited, but his voice is also deadly clipped.

 

I know that voice from when he’s preparing a body just before he puts a knife in. I know that voice from the restrained paced moves he makes before he goes to snap someone’s neck. I know it’s the voice of inevitable violence.

 

‘He doesn’t want to hurt you’. I remind myself. Pleading with my own shaking limbs to stay still, to stop scrabbling against the blood slick surfaces. ‘He doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants to keep you.’

 

I let my body freeze.

 

I try to mimic the look of stilted prey.  Surely when in front of a predator that could only be a bad thing, one would think. But I have learnt (the hard way) that my struggles are the first trigger of Peter's violence.

 

We both appear to be still for what feels like an hour (but, of course, was mere seconds). I am panting in a way that I hope is quiet. Peter does nothing but gently squeeze my neck.

 

As if he has managed to convince himself of his restraint, Peter snaps to grab more blood and pours it over me. The liquid flooding down the clef of my arse, three of his large fingers chasing it.

 

‘He doesn't want to hurt you, he doesn't want to hurt you’,  the words of my mantra feel hollow as pain fills my body as he too quickly pushes too much inside of me.

 

Once he’s certain he has coated my insides with enough blood, Peter positions his cock against me. I really was not prepared enough. The blunt thickness of the head of his prick burns against me, before my body appears to give in to the intrusion and allows it to pop through. The blood was proving to be a fairweather lubricant however, wet enough that the length could slowly slip in, but providing very little amnesty for my flesh.

 

He pauses halfway in, dragging his prick back and then returning to the midway point. It is possible that this is to ensure that I haven't been torn - haven’t been made to bleed - the ridiculousness of it almost has me laughing, but instead I bite harder on my lip. From the corner of my eye I watch him dip his fingers back into the bath to retrieve more of the blood.  I am begrudgingly pleased for the added lubricant and within moments he is pushing the entirety of his length inside of me.

 

He doesn’t pause again.

 

Instead picking up a fast pace that has my dangling thighs bruising against the countertop. The pressure on my neck threatens my breathing at times, as he uses his grip as leverage to slam inside me. He alternates using his free hand to pull at one of my arse cheeks: I assume to better see his dick disappear inside me, or gripping my hip so he can drag my body back to meet his thrusts.

 

It hurts. It hurts so much I’m crying, which is almost a surprise, as I can’t remember that last time I had the energy to cry. But it hurts. And I realise, once again, that my mantra is wrong. He does want to hurt me. He just doesn’t want me dead. And although painful, I will survive this.

 

I will survive Peter Hale.

 

His thrusts are getting sloppy, and harder. Within moments I can feel his dick slide into me with less frictions, suggesting that his cum has filled me.

 

I survived this night anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

I’m in a shallow bath of hot water.

 

I regret telling him I’d rather drown myself than do what he says, all those months ago. Because now, if I’m by myself, the baths are always shallow and my wrists are tied to the handles.

 

How closely I’m playing out the scenes from before is not lost on me. It’s not the same bathtub. That one probably still has a dying boy in it, soaked in his own blood. But it’s close enough that my heart is still thumping with adrenalin.

 

He doesn’t leave me in a bath often. But this time I was literally saturated in blood. He didn’t say so, but I think the aim is for all the blood he pushed inside me to seep out. It is. As even though the quick shower he gave me removed most of the blood _on_ me, the water is already a watery red colour.

 

I don’t really have the energy to feel sickened by it.

 

I’m mostly trying not to think about what he does with them when I’m not there.

 

He does a lot to them when I _am_ there. He does a lot _to_ me, when they’re there.

 

So what does he do when I’m not...?

 

Like I said, he doesn’t actually fuck me that often. Well, as often as I thought he would. It’s not very often when it’s just the two of us, and it’s not all the time when he has someone in the house. 

 

I think he fucks them.

 

I think he fucks them and kills them as he does it.

 

That’s why he doesn’t touch me like that too much, in case he gets too caught up and kills me.

 

I try not to think about it.

 

Because if I do think about it, I become glad that he brings those boys in instead.

 

I become hopeful that he keeps finding boys that look enough like me that he can do what he would rather be doing to me.

 

I try not to think about it.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s almost affectionate in bed. The thought that he’s glad that I’m alive - that I survived another night - enters my mind.

 

He touches me a lot, my face, my hair. He puts his hands on my hips, and tucks me closer to his body.

 

It’s intimate.

 

I’m used to it, as he’s always more like this after he brings someone home, but also endlessly surprised.

 

When I met him, he showed a lot of this side of himself, and I had always expected it to be a lie to get me through the door.

 

“You look so good in my bed.” He murmurs into my hairline, dragging his jawline across my just-starting-to-grow-back scalp.

 

Frustration, and tiredness of staying silent all the gosh damned time, has me respond to him.

 

“Are you glad I’m alive?”

 

He pauses, before pushing me down on the sheets and looming over me.

 

His arms are bracketed next to my head, and although the most of his weight is off me, I am still reasonably pinned.

 

The position is not a new one.

 

His expression - a mixture of surprise and delight - is.

 

He smirks at me.

 

“Are you scared Stiles?”

 

I nod… But all I can think about is that we’re on the same side now. We both want him to kill them, instead of me.

 

I move a hand up, carefully, gently, and touch his lips. I let my fingers squirm in between them until I can feel the hard ridges of his teeth. They are blunt little things. White even in the darkness of the room. I am always surprised at how human they are. That there aren’t fangs hidden in there. That he isn’t secretly some kind of beast. It doesn’t make sense that he’s the same boring human as everyone else. Only monsters of the night should be able to cause so much pain.

 

“You don’t want to kill me.”

 

“No.”

 

“You want to keep me.”

 

“I am keeping you.”

 

“You want to keep… Keeping me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

I can feel two voices in my head. One is telling me to give in. To give in to his madness. To open myself to his assault, his manipulations… To play the part of his willing participant to save myself. To let him turn me into what he is.

 

It’s distasteful and scary, and I instantly want to shut it down.

 

The second voice is telling me that this is my best option for getting out. That a placated Peter is one that might give me the chance to escape.

 

That I can go along with it, just enough, to get out.

 

That I can kill someone, just to save myself.

 

“What do you want me to do?”

 

The smile he gives me is terrifying.

 

I know I’m playing into his hand.

 

But I don’t really have any options anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Spoilers/Warnings]  
> Graphic descriptions of violence. Blood play with someone else's blood. Peter gets off on murder. Stiles is a victim. To the characters, this is not kink play, but actual violence. Stiles has no agency, so although at no point says not to sex, he is not able to consent. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm considering writing a prequel/flashback from the night that Stiles met Peter, to help explain how things go to this point. Tell me in the comments if that's something you'd be interested in reading!


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